Lapsed Anamnesis
by the corrupted quiet one
Summary: "How many times will it take for me to repeat this? When will I wake up and remember?" K2 angst spurred from Kenny's death...s. Kyle's perspective. Birthday fic for the lovely azngirlLH. Trigger warning: Contemplation of suicide, suicide does not occur.


**A/N: Hi reader(s)! Sorry for being lazy, but I've been busy and bullshit around a lot. But this isn't bullshit, oh no, this is a (sadly belated) birthday fiction for one of the main influences of me getting into this fandom; azngirlLH! And, just like my other birthday fic, the note at the end is primarily for her, the birthday girl. **

**Even if it was on SATURDAY and it is now TUESDAY. (Speaking of which, THE LONG AWAITED SECOND HALF OF SEASON 15 IS FINALLY COMING, Y'ALL EXCITED?)**

**Okay, also adding that this is from Kyle's POV, first person. I was a bit hesitant writing him first person, but I'm just hoping this is melodramatic and bittersweet enough for my birthday girl. I wish I could make it better! Anyway, R&R, thanks in advance, blah blah blah ~CQO**

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><p>It all happened in a flash.<p>

A blink of an eye.

An instant.

What happened, in those moments-that ONE moment-was unclear. So many events, going on simultaneously, blurring together, colliding into a horrific mess.

Horrific? That was a compliment compared to the terror that sprouted in the chaos. No word in the dictionary can define it. And there probably never will be one.

Just a feeling more intense and so indescribable you'd have to experience it.

And I wish I never did.

Flurries of cold white sprinkle from the ashen clouds, a grim atmosphere matching the occasion painfully perfectly. The people move like ghosts, decked in ebony and wandering, floating around with life moving around them. Only there doesn't seem to be any life, all of it gone, resting in a black box, buried deep beneath the earth. No one else realised the effect he had on everyone, how much energy and light he brought to us each day. Everyone took him for granted, demeaned him, didn't give a shit until he was gone.

But not me.

I'm the only one who seemed to care.

_I'm the only one who _still _cares._

That's probably a selfish thing to say, considering I wasn't the only person in his life. His family took the loss badly, but that's to be expected. When they aren't drunken assholes, they have more capacity of caring. They're still family, anyway. Then there's Stan and Cartman. Cartman was pretty much his best friend even if they constantly bitched about and at each other, and Stan was probably closer to him than I was. If anything I was one of the _least _important people in his life.

Yet, I'm the last one here. The last one in front of the tombstone. The last one still clutching a white rose to lay with all the other cheap bouquets and scraps from the florist. Everyone else passed by, fading away to go on with their lives.

I don't know if I just can't move on or if I'm the only one who remembers anything.

I'm really hoping it's the first one.

I crouch down, shoes crinkling the sheet of snow already laid over the ground. The spot in front of the grave is cleared, a wall of snow surrounding the freshly turned dirt, flowers in a mess propped up by the stone. The flurries dot the brown, hinting that before I knew it a bed of snow would cover it and make it look just like the rest of the graves. Time would go on, but that wouldn't do either of us any good.

I lay the single rose on the patch of earth, the petals quivering. A few snowflakes fall on the stem. Soon it'll be consumed into the ground, decomposing under a freezing sheet and blanket of dirt.

_Just like him._

I glance at the inscription on the grave, scanning over the epitaph. I reach out, placing a finger under the words, running it along the lines as I read the few lines.

_'Here lies Kenneth McCormick; a son, a brother, a friend, may he rest in peace'_

Short and sweet. Too bad sweet tastes bitter now.

Just..._fuck_.

I turn my head away, shutting my eyes and shaking my head. The rough, cold stone burns my fingers, imagination booby-trapping me just to get me to stop touching the thing. I cradle the hand against my chest, memories of the event flooding my mind.

It was just crossing the goddamn street.

The light said it was okay to fucking walk.

He'd lagged behind to pick up a penny on the ground, but we expected him to catch up with no problems.

No problems meaning he'd actually make it to us.

Stan and I turn back to tell him to hurry up, opening our mouths to shout to him.

Kenny starts running, the light switching from a white walking man to a red halt hand.

"Yeah yeah I'm comin'!" He shouts, halfway across.

Another step and a truck appears.

It doesn't stop.

It just...it doesn't.

And in a second it's gone.

So's Kenny.

Orange stained with red.

Smeared all over the pavement.

Just. Like. _That_.

"Oh my god they killed Kenny!" Stan shouts as a small crowd gathers.

"_YOU BASTARDS!_"

My voice echoes, the words shattering the dead silence of the cemetery. It takes a few sentence for me to realise I wasn't just thinking that.

I open my eyes again, re-emerging from the haunting memories, disoriented. Blurs and blotches define themselves, the cemetery coming back into focus.

Were things always this..._grey_? Or am I just noticing? The dark sky, the blackened silhouettes, the dark outlines of the crippling trees... Everything's dark. Everything's colourless. Everything's _dead_.

Dead.

For some fucked up reason, dead doesn't sound so bad right now.

Maybe it's the shock. Maybe I'm stupid. Maybe I'm both. That still doesn't stop the word from appealing to _something _in me.

What was that Stephen King book...? Dead _is _better.

Oh god, what the _fuck _am I even _thinking_?

I've never been suicidal...

Well...

Not in a long time.

And not like this.

This time it was...

Just different.

Hell, who knows what's after death. Even if it's Hell or flickering out, or some shit like that; it'll bring me out of here. Here is dead.

And it's all because he had to die.

It's all because he's gone.

Is that what sparked this? Fuck, I'm acting like this guy was my life.

Yeah he was my friend but...

But...

_But..._

_...But?_

But I'm exaggerating.

I'm talking crazy.

Time to go home before this infects my brain to the point of leaping into Starks or some dumbass shit like that. There's no one to stop me, best I find people.

I rise to my feet, brushing some of the snow off the black suit, the darker thoughts multiplying. Maybe if the sun came out or some crap like that my mind would change.

No. Just one thing could change my mind.

And there's no way a dead man can talk me out of it.

...Assuming I go through with it.

Did I just decide to or...?

Ugh, I just need to get the fuck out of this graveyard. The morbidity is rubbing off on me.

I take a few steps, starting away from the dreaded marker of his passing. I feel like I'm abandoning him, but I'm just sitting there collecting stone like a weeping angel anyway. I'm still alive, anyway.

It's a bit questionable for how much longer.

What the hell, really? I... I think I'm taking it too far.

But why is everything dead now? Why is the laughter gone? Where are the smiles? What's with the heavy lead feeling of my heart?

_It's breaking, retard, that's what it's doing. Breaking over Kenny McCormick, lord of the bedroom and master of innuendo._

The sexual remarks, lewd comments, profane gestures... I'll miss it all. Even if he couldn't control it and hit on me—now that I think about it I really didn't mind, he was just joking around, though...

Of all things to feel, disappointment washes over me. It's not in him, but in _me_.

I took some of it for granted too. I'm probably no better than everyone else. Maybe—_PROBABLY_—worse.

I'll probably never truly appreciate the art of screwing girls or the thrill of injected substances into my body one way or another, but that doesn't mean I didn't care. Hell, I had to get him to stop cheesing back when he was being a moron sniffing cat piss all the time! Not to mention the instances when I'd talk him out of fucking some shady whore. Or driving him home when he was intoxicated. Or helping him lighten some of his addictions. Or suffer the random come on lines he'd pull on me just to mess with me.

At least I think he was just screwing around.

I mean, it wasn't like I liked it.

Entirely.

It's not...like...that...

At least I didn't really think about it that way until...

_FUCK EVERYTHING._

Doesn't fucking matter any fucking more any-fucking-way.

Yeah, now let's fucking see how many fucking times I can use fuck in the same fucking sentence without fucking solving any one of my fucking problems and leaning towards fucking jumping in the fucking pond and hope I fucking die because that fucked up shit _always_ fucking works.

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK._

I rub my temples, the little brain massaging hopefully soothing my train of thoughts. Too bad that thing's on a ninety-five mile per hour trip straight to hell.

I don't think any of my thoughts—or any-fucking-thing for that matter—are going to make sense.

It's normal, I guess, my best friend just died and I only just seem to be realising that hormones had their own opinions on the guy. Maybe if this was a normal day I'd start concerning myself with things like coming out or whatever the fuck I'm supposed to do. I don't give enough of a shit anymore to consider the possibilities.

Yeah, possibilities, like the possible life I could have if I wasn't being such a dumbass.

But I'm a _motivated_ dumbass. And one who'll get things _done_.

Is this really how people unravel? For some reason I thought it'd be more complicated than this. More like something to come out of an Edgar Allan Poe story than a decision like this. No bells, no ravens, no beating hearts; just a decision.

_CAAAAAAAAAAAW! CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAW!_

I jump, snapping my head up. An ink-black crow sits on a brittle tree branch, perched rather comfortably, beady black eyes staring me down. Not a raven but it adds to the homely charm of the cemetery. What a wonderful cliché addition to this prelude to my fatal stupidity driving me to my own inevitable yet arguably untimely demise.

God, was this how Stan acted when he was cynical? Or maybe Goth...

Though I don't remember him casually slipping that he was going to off himself into conversation at any point in time. Maybe I shouldn't be taking the coward's way out and just lock myself up in my room letting each pointless day pass by until Death finally knocks on my door and takes my pathetic soul away—

"_Those are some pretty dark thoughts, doncha think, Ky?" _

Everything stops.

The sound rings in my ears, that deathly familiar voice replaying over and over.

No.

No it.

It _couldn't_ be.

_It can't be._

"K...Kenny?" The word leaves my lips, almost too quiet for me to even hear.

This has to be my mind playing stupid tricks on me; it has to be some psychological safety mechanism to keep me sane with insane measures or something like that it has to—

"_No, Bingo. Of course it's me, dumbass!"_

Well that sounds like him alright...

A pair of hands rests on my shoulders, the cold of their touch bleeding through the layers of fabric and chilling my skin. It's an odd sensation, primarily because the hands feel more like cool air forming the shape rather than actual skin. It's so..._inhuman_.

"_Much as I love havin' a view of your pretty lil' ass, ain't ya gonna turn around and say hi? I thought you of all people would emphasise manners, ya know?"_

It sounds like him. Oh god does it sound like him.

From the white-trash accent to the engine-purr of his voice.

It. Sounds. Like. _Him_.

What do I do? Well what is there to do but stand paralysed where I am? This is more than likely some hallucination or some shit like that why buy into it? I'm not letting my chipped psyche get the better of me and make myself shatter it to bits until I'm a drooling little psychopath rolling in a patch of snow spewing out nonsensical drivel! No, I'm going to stay sane!

"_Jesus, Ky, would a sane man think about jumping into a frozen pond to kill himself? Of all ways to go, that's probably the dumbest you could think of."_

_IS HE READING MY GODDAMN THOUGHTS?_

_BUT IF THIS IS MY PSYCHE AREN'T I THEN READING MY OWN THOUGHTS AND THAT'S NORMAL?_

_OR..._

_SHIT._

The hands—or whatever cold presence it is—withdraw from my shoulders. Then, just as the blood starts running tepid again, a deafening whoosh of the wind drowns out all other sounds.

Right before my eyes, a figure materialises—_Kenny_ materialises. His boots don't touch the ground, floating just half an inch above the untouched snow. His orange body glows, but isn't solid. In fact, it's translucent, allowing me to see the scenery behind him with a slight tangerine tint. His hood's up, but it's loose enough for me to see his entire face. His wonderful childlike face with golden locks of blond and sparkling eyes of blue, a face an angel would envy.

...Sounds like I'm _one_ _hundred_ percent _heterosexual_.

"Oh you and your sarcasm," Kenny rolls his eyes, "But it ain't a shock that ya love me."

Right, I apparently need to watch what I think.

Because even though I haven't said anything he's still managed to act like the cocky asshole we just put in the ground...

"Hostile much, Ky?" Kenny asks, a smirk teasing at the corners of his lips.

"Oh will you cut that out!"

Safe inside my mind my ass.

"He speaks," Kenny raises a brow, caving in to the urge to smirk.

"Oh god," I roll my eyes. Even in death he's an arrogant son of a bitch.

"Arrogant's a bit of a hard word, Kyle," He says, floating a little higher in the air, "And that ain't a way to treat a guy who just died and all."

"Let me guess, you're a ghost?" The displeasure drips off every damn word. It's not even my fault; I'm fucking loosing it. First depression then suicidal thoughts now hallucinations and somewhere in there hints of homoeroticism... This is turning less and less into a funeral and more and more into a surreal nightmare.

I'm probably going to wake up in the morning and everything is going to be just fucking fine.

At that thought, I notice him stiffen a tad, posture straightening so he stands like some regal messenger with something important to deliver. The childish gleam to his light blue eyes dims, a new seriousness cast over the sapphires.

Kenny's only serious when he really has to be, only when he has to say something of the utmost importance.

"To answer your question, yes, yes I am," He starts with a simple nod, "Just kinda lagged a bit before going..."

He lifts a hand, pointing up at the sky at first. However, confusion crosses his face, causing him to point down at the ground...and then up above again... and then down... and then up... down and up and down...

"Fuck," He mutters softly, shaking his hand and shoving it in his pocket, "Well wherever the fuck I'd be going this time around."

"This time around?" I repeat.

What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

Kenny sighs, stretching his feet out. His gaze lowers to the bed of snow, biting his lip as he thinks of something. I assume it's something about what that exactly meant...and whatever it is it doesn't seem too easy to explain.

"Yeah..." His voice is lower, volume toned town, energetic tone replaced by a dark, grimmer one, "This time around. As in... This ain't the first time."

"What?" That's preposterous. That's stupid. That's _impossible_.

"I know what you're thinkin'...LITERALLY..." He gulps, "But it's true..."

Slowly, he floats a little closer to me, stare still fixed on the ground. He takes a deep breath, taking more time to think about what he has to say, contrary to his usual 'say the first thing that pops into your head' technique. He hasn't been this serious since the Mysterion deal way back when.

"Kyle I die all the time," His voice is strained, nearly choking on his speech, "I die at least once a goddamn week. But none of you ever fucking remember... Because whatever curse I was born with doesn't allow people to remember. I mean, I'd be a dick if I wanted everyone to remember all the grief and shit I caused, but it kinda hurts to wake up in the morning as if nothing's wrong when the other day ya just got shot in the face or something..." Then, with words slurred together, he mutters, "And getting shot in the face _really fucking hurts_."

"I..."

_I don't understand_.

_What do I say when I just don't understand?_

"Ya don't haveta say anything," Kenny cuts off the train of thought, shaking his head, "I'm...I'm used to it. Honestly this ain't the first time I've told ya."

"It's...not...?" I tilt my head. A gust of wind blows, sending a surge of quivers through my body.

"Nope, this has to be at least the fifty-second..." He takes a minute, counting on his fingers before hiding his hands back in his pockets, "Never mind. Doesn't matter how many times I've told ya or not, but I hate seein' ya grieving. You're always the worst..."

_You're always the worst..._

The words echo. Every part of my brain vibrates as the message repeats and sinks in, my entire body freezing.

Suddenly, it's hard to believe that this is all a hallucination.

I don't think I can even make up a lie like that. I at least hope my selfish thinking hasn't corrupted me that much, but at the same time the words are too... genuine.

Kenny doesn't lie about this kind of stuff, and judging by how serious he is, there's no way he could be lying now.

May as well believe in the impossible; this is South Park anyway.

"The main reason I'm here now," He lifts his head, a wateriness to the blue, "Is because I knew that after a while...you or Stan or someone was going to do something stupid. You more than the rest of the guys... You with your..." He tries to think of the right word, squeezing his eyes shut as he sifts through his vocabulary files, "Your..._temperament_..."

"And that's supposed to mean?" I raise a brow. Honestly, I'm not mad that he pointed that out; I haven't forgotten my wavering mindset on dying, after all.

"Well, you don't act on impulses, but I think ya would if...If all of this built up..." He sighs, "Every time, I noticed, you get worse. None of the others do, just you, and I had a feeling that over the years all that shit would snowball and just...set ya off and make ya do something stupid. I know you've at least thought about it the last couple times."

"How do you know all these things?" The creepy mind-reading abilities aren't exactly comforting.

"The dead know all, Kyle. If I wanted, I could tell you the meaning of life or some shit like that. Only the predictable stuff, though, like people. People are predictable as fuck, to be honest, 'specially the ones ya know like the back of your hand. It's sorta probability when it comes to when a guy'll snap, gambling and betting to see if it'll take eight more hits or just one. I'm just a lucky asshole and had a feeling you'd need a guardian angel to stop ya from dying."

I stay silent. There's nothing for me to say.

Kenny stares at me, the wetness subsiding from his eyes. He probably won't admit he let a tear come to his eyes, at least not to my face. He's not the emotional type, and he likes to pretend to be the tough guy even though he's a closet softie. He isn't typically a man of this many words either, though this sort of stuff requires a lot of in depth explanation. Still, he's always more the action type.

Yeah, maybe if I was one too I wouldn't be here right now...

"Stop thinking about that," He says, "Seriously, you of all people should know that's a dibshit thing to do."

There's a long pause.

"...So what if it is?"

"Dying's not a joke, and you don't come back like me."

"But if I'm dead won't I be with you more," That's more sarcastic than serious.

"_NO_," That's a yell, a shout that silences the surroundings, the wind hushing and birds quieting.

It's starling how a dead man's protest can bring everything alive to a halt.

"Don't ya understand?" Kenny goes on, looming over me, "I need you alive. Otherwise going back wouldn't be worth jack shit. Otherwise I'd probably wake up and shoot myself_. Otherwise everything would be absolutely POINTLESS_."

Passion reinforces the words, an underlying fire to his speech matching that of a medieval dragon. The only thing burning brighter is his eyes, which fiercely advocate for me to shut my bitter belated cynicism and listen to the fallen angel. I'd listen to him if he argued like this when he dwelled amongst the living, so what does it matter that he's dead? I'm supposed to stop listening to him?

If anything's pointless, it would be me arguing. I can't deny him whatever he feels, that's not how it works. And I can't really shove my feelings aside either.

I picked a bad time to have an epiphany.

Kenny cranes his head, looking straight into my eyes, glints of concern shining.

"Just... just go home and we can try and talk about this...tomorrow..." He swallows hard, coaching himself through the painful lies.

If I forgot all those other times, how was this time any different? He just had to keep me from dying for him—to give him a reason to come back—but come sunrise all of this will be a dream, given I remember at all.

That's the worst part about these constant deaths, everyone forgets. _I forget. _It probably kills him more than guns or trucks or plagues or combustion; because who knows how we'll take it when he's gone for good.

Assuming it ever happens permanently; he could just be immortal to the point of everyone dying around him, still aging but unable to finally find peace.

"By the time you go, I'm probably selling my soul to Satan," He mentions after another thought scan.

I look up at him, only to see him shrug carelessly.

"He's a nice guy, bet he won't even make me play a fiddle or any shit like that..." He stares at me a long moment, "But I don't want that to be for a long time. I'll be back in the morning, you won't remember this, and maybe then I can explain. But ya can't do any stupid shit while I'm gone; you know I'm the only one allowed to be a dumbass." He flashes a weak smile, trying to convince me that everything WILL be okay.

I don't have any other choice but believing him at this point. The guy makes a good argument.

My lips curve into a small smile of conformation, accepting his words as the truth and agreeing to the promise of not being a complete idiot.

"That's the Jew I know and love," Kenny cheers, patting the top of my head lightly, "Now I gotta go. Go—no...Sa—wait...SOMEONE's waiting for me..." His eyes flicker up and down, not sure which route he's supposed to take.

"Well, don't be late because of me," I say, the warm feeling of happiness heating up, emerging from the midst of harshest winter, "I'll stop being a retard and be just fine. You just better come back. Okay?"

"And when I do, you owe me a confession," He winks with a quick chuckle.

I just roll my eyes. That's classic Kenny for you.

His form starts to fade, orange, peach, gold, and blue dissolving right before my eyes. He floats back, looking down briefly as his feet and legs completely disappear, and then he looks back at me.

"Be right back, sweetheart," He waves, still smiling, as a gust of wind blows the last of him away.

Again, I'm alone, and he's gone.

But he'll be back.

He'll be back and all this hardship will more than likely be forgotten.

I don't know what I'll remember—I don't know if I'll remember—but he can probably explain.

But I'll remember him; from now on I'll try.

And as long as I know he's out there, know that he's somewhere floating around... Well I guess that's enough for me.

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><p><strong>AN: Happy birthday Lin! I hope I did a good job ;A; It's a few day late but I don't think the quality is too much better than if it was on time (I think it got worse aaaah;;). I'm sorry, I don't think I could ever really give you anything that would be enough for you. I do hope you're feeling a bit better now, and I hope this made you emotional (I'd say smile but I don't know how much smiling there would be...).**

**Anyway, I wish it could be better. It's not fireworks or streamers or anything and maybe I'll be able to write something decent for you without either falling into an off period of creative flow (that's school stress though) or crumpling it up and tossing it away (I had so many ideas for this thing but, once again, I think I picked the worst TTATT). Just, yeah. I'm sorry it's long too, I seem to be unable to write things 'short', though I don't consider this very long by my standards. **

**Either way, happy birthday a million times over! I really hope that this year makes more of a difference, i hope your troubles lessen, and I hope you can be happy and draw and party with the rest of us K2 shippers in a happy land of green and orange and we can all watch South Park forever. YAY! Love ya!**


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